


Unspoken

by DaisytheDoodleDog



Series: Destiel Collection [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, Dean Winchester Saves Castiel, Dungeon, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hallucination Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NO character deaths, Protective Dean Winchester, Torture, Tortured Castiel (Supernatural), happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21709396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisytheDoodleDog/pseuds/DaisytheDoodleDog
Summary: When Castiel is alone in the bunker, he comes across a secret chamber, unlocked with an Enochian chant that opens up to a Angel torture chamber. With his grace failing the room destroys the only feathers he has left, but of course, Dean is never far when his angel is in danger.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Destiel Collection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551580
Comments: 2
Kudos: 118





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm sure this isn't the most original idea but I wanted to give it a shot, so here it is! I suck at summaries, but the story is exactly what it seems. Destiel! Enjoy and comment please!

There were a lot of things that went unspoken in the bunker. Lies that were far too easy hissed through clenched jaws, and secrets tucked away in the depths of memories, preventing anyone from ever getting too close. But with all the bad things that were left unspoken, left to drown in the dark before resurfacing with a stronger tension, good things were left unspoken too. Like the love that was shared between them, a weakness, they thought, was left unspoken. But that love was there, it surfaced with every fight, protective move, every secret they kept. It was all to protect that love.

Of course it was known by now, that the Winchester’s weren’t known for sharing their feelings, and that influenced anyone around them to express the same lack of emotion. Castiel, the angel that learned his every move from the brothers, took this on unsurprisingly easy, hiding everything he felt behind a stoic face. But something about that frustrated him to no end. He wanted to talk. He wanted  _ Dean  _ to talk to him, more specifically. He just didn’t know how. Who could have known it was the angel torture chamber that changed all that.

Cas hadn’t been in the bunker alone for long when he discovered the room. He should have been investigating the case outside of Milawkee, but he found himself spending the time in the dungeon, searching through files and old demon cases. He wasn’t sure why he was searching here, something in his gut just told him to do so. It had only been a couple of hours since the Winchesters drove off for their routine case. Cas had offered to stay behind for research, which Dean quickly agreed. He didn’t want Cas to get hurt. Even if he was an angel, Cas’s power’s were failing and Dean was not about to take any chances.

Cas stood in front of the case files, the doors wide open, revealing the devil’s trap and torturing devices laid out on the table. He ignored them, and moved through the case files, deeper and deeper in the rows passing all the boxes and folders he had read through before hitting the very back, the one area he had yet to go through. Suddenly, his grace and heart pulsed through his chest in harsh rhythmic patterns, urging him to move closer. Against every instinct and his wings beating against the gravitational pull, he was forced towards the wall. The brick, like many of the bricks throughout the bunker had little carvings or scratches that wrote out little spells or traps from creature breaches. This one however, was Enochain. 

Cas squinted rubbing the symbols that flowed blue in his presence. He read them carefully and while his grace dwindled with each falling feather inside him, his Enochian hadn’t changed a bit. He spoke them out loud the letters seemingly innocent. Translated directly it read:  _ how dreams doth become reality in which one shall gaze upon their fall. _

Such odd words he decided, but read them out loud anyway. His grace rattled inside him, with excitement or fear he couldn’t tell but the bricks suddenly started to rearrange and he could feel his chest squeeze shut until he couldn’t breathe. It was as if an invisible coil binded his grace to his vessel in sickening tears at his insides as if he was being stretched from the inside out.

The bricks moved swiftly revealing the large chamber with tall stone pillars and a boxy dark room about the size of a small high school gym. His instinct said run, but he instead ventured into the chamber staring curiously at the markings carved deeply into the walls shackles hanging from the ceiling. He gulped, wondering if this was another demon dungeon but the symbols glowed with scowling pale yellow as he passed them tugging at his grace until he couldn’t walk any further. He turned back, heartbeat picking up and his adrenaline spiking as he realized the markings. They were meant to trap angels.

He whipped around and stormed towards the entrance, but something violent inside him held him back as the bricks rearranged themselves until darkness was his only friend. 

“No!” He screamed out into the sea of nothing, but then he felt it. The sickening rip between his shoulder blades as his trench coat fabric tore and the sudden weight on his back refreshing and utterly horrifying at the same time. He looked back at what took up the majority of the room, the pair of once sleek black wings with scars running the feathers from fights, from hell, from losing his grace. But they were disintegrating, one feather at a time that burned away into ash as his grace drained itself. One feather at a time, igniting in the darkness, starting at the tip and slowly burning up into the root of the feather the line of embers making their way up the rich black and charring in into nothing. 

He cried out in anguish, the feeling of each feather burning off suddenly far more evident and painful now that his wings had been manifested in the room. His wings beat violently trying to rid of the invisible chains that seems to drag them down to the ground, but were unable to break free. The room felt as if it were contracting on him, he was unable to breathe, unable to see anything other than the ominous glow of the sigils on the wall burning his eyes and carving the symbols in his skin with little bloody strokes that sent him doubling over to the floor. He cursed bitterly, as his body hit the floor, his grace and blood melted together into a pool on the floor as they leaked from the carvings etched in his skin. He screamed as suddenly one of the sigils lit up as if clock work, tugging his wings in opposite directions. The bone and little muscle mass still left pulled sharply on his shoulder blades spreading each disintegrating feather to its full wingspan. Shackled in place by the angel traps, the light of a holy fire illuminated the chamber showing off a number of things Cas didn’t see before.

He glanced about the room, shivers crawling up his spine. He could see the wall holding objects on hooks and shelves. Books covered in dust and blood were scattered around, but their were also a line of syringes, bottles of holy water, and the anatomy chart of angels. Cas gulped, studying how they graphed the pictures, they were fairly accurate, however in order to find it they would have had to perform spell work and cut deep into the angel's grace to find these notes. Another sharp sting as a sigil in the back of the room lit up and Cas began to feel his grace unravel and itch it’s way out of him. It felt like needles stabbing him from inside his stomach and chest, something so harsh he doubled over with a grunt and vomited. Black and red came up, low glowing of angel grace sparking in the mixture that he threw up. His head swirled around him the sigils still carving his skin. 

Castiel lifted his head, swallowed back the foul taste and grunted. He’d been through worse. 

As soon as the statement went through his mind, the chamber seemed to challenge him, pulling his wings upward toward a sigil on the ceiling, forcing his weak knees to bear his weight. He called out for help, hoping someone was in the bunker, but he knew no one would answer his call. He raised his head and fought against the sigils, like a bird caught in a fence, his wings beat together and shook and rattled, but only got further tangled into the netting that would strangle him. He squinted, trying to make sense of the Enochian plastered on the ceiling and widened his eyes in fear.

He was going to die here.

There was a reason this room was so big. It was meant to hold an angel’s true form. Meant to keep it locked away in a tiny cage where it’s wings could be bound behind their back and the creatures that once were a sign of beauty would be forced into the darkness and become nothing but dust. And if a human tried to help him? Their eyes would be burned out so fast, there wouldn’t be any chance for Castiel.

However, his grace was dwindling. That was why the sigils tugged so hard on his every atom, but couldn’t get the spell to manifest his true form. There was simply not enough grace coursing through his veins to turn. That realization did more damage than any carving in his skin. He was a dying angel, rotting in a chamber alone and cold, surrounded by darkness. Hopeless and exhausted, Castiel hung is head and let the one droplet of water drip off his chin and into the ravine below him that ate his dreams and ripped his wings from his soul.

…

Dean couldn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t that his bed was stiff or that Sam snored, something in his gut made him feel nauseous. Worry crept into his mind, although he wasn’t sure why. He tossed and turned, groaned and grumbled but he couldn’t help but feel discomforted. It was as if he had forgotten something. Or maybe like he was caught in a trap, defenseless and struggling to breathe. The ache in his chest only grew as the night went on, until Dean was forced to walr circles in the room, his lungs heaving for air and his mind racing. The worst feeling in the world was the gut instinct that something was wrong. The second worst feeling was not being able to tell what it was.

…

The sleepless night for Castiel was another one of hell. He had vomited three more times, had cursed and fought, but blood seeped through his every open wound and grace poured out with the black color of his tears. At some point in the early morning hours some of the sigils let up allowing him to move, but others fired soon after triggering new sensations of being set on fire, his blood freezing and his head throbbing so intensely he constantly slipped in and out of consciousness, his calls and grunts mellowing to soft whimper of fear and pain.

The pain so violently taking over him, allowed for hallucinations to reign in place of his usually steady mind. And they were horrific.

Some were of Dean dying. Some were flashes of being back in hell. Some were Castiel killing Dean, but the worst by far were the ones where Dean did the torturing. They were so traumatizing that with each feather charred and swept to the ground like the ashes of a phoenix stripped of its ability to fly, the hallucinations became more and more real. They began to morph into horrid monsters that Cas crawled away from, begging Dean to stop. To stop burning his feathers. Stop breaking his wings, and stop the holy oil. Only in the darkness of the chamber, Castiel screamed these words, shrinking away into the far back corner, his wings wrapped around him in their protective defense bleeding out onto his shaky hands. 

Castiel screamed again, begging the hallucination of Dean to stop.

“Please! Please!”

“You’re a monster. You’ve butchered thousands, betrayed us, you deserve this.  _ You deserve this _ .” This was the truth finally spoken. Or at least to the truth that Castiel’s mind dangerously told him. Nothing was unspoken now. Castiel’s cries said everything. 

He was nothing.

Cas reached his hand out to stop Dean, but the hunter grabbed his wrist stuck the angel blade through his flesh, white hot pain shooting through his nerves as Cas cried out one final time.

Everything fell silent.

…

Dean had never driven so fast in his entire life. After the first night on the hunt, Dean’s edginess only made him feel worse. He knew Sam was fine -for now- but sent several messages to Cas. The angel, normally pretty quick to respond didn’t text back. His gut tightening, Dean called, and called, and called again. Ten voicemails and nothing. That did it. Dean was going home.

When he did burst through the bunker door, hollering for Cas, he got no response. Fear rippling through him, Dean skipped stairs as he ran, throwing his bags to be scattered on the floor and he searched the bunker. It was empty and oddly enough, left completely untouched. It was as if no one was ever here. Surely Cas had been here, he always had books piling on the tables or gadgets scattered about as he tried to figure human things out.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice boomed through the bunker’s halls, but nothing was his answer. He called the angel’s name again, co much left unspoken in that one little word, filled with desperation. Dean scanned every room and made his way to the dungeon, everything still left untouched.

A low rustle and Dean whipped around, gun already in his hand. He found himself staring at a wall in the back of file shelves. Glowing enochian words were carved into the bricks. Dean cocked his head, suddenly wishing Sam hadn’t stayed behind to finish the hunt. Dean took a deep breath and started to interpret the words slowly speaking them, taking several tries before the bricks started to move again.

He gasped, at the discovery that lead him into a dark chamber, a massive one at that with large stone pillars and sigils marking the walls, ceiling, and floor. They didn’t light up as he entered, they didn’t detect any grace and allowed him to pass. But then Dean saw it. Or more specifically,  _ him _ . Tightly wrapped in a little ball, a pool of blood at his feet something black foul staining his trench coat and bloody carving lining his skin, was the fallen angel. The angel jolted every time a tattered feather burned off the bone, with the wings completely destroyed to the point where the mangy weak things were barely deciperable as wings. 

“Cas?” Dean whispered, startling the angel. Castiel looked up and cried out, but instead of reaching for him in all his mind warping fear, he cowered further into the corner. 

“No, no, no. Please not again. I won’t- I won’t… please. I’m sorry.”

_ “Sorry doesn’t mean a damn thing.”  _ “Cas? Cas, what…?” The words Dean actually spoke were morphed into something monsterous in Cas’s head, causing him to swat his bloody hand at the hunter. Dean bent down next to him, so shocked he had no idea what to do. He reached out, slowly touching the angel’s wrists, but Cas pulled away harshly and screamed. His hallucinations told him a different story.

“Cas, Cas it’s okay!” Dean called, taking his hands rubbing his thumbs across Cas’s palms, trying to stir him from the trance. The angel tried to tug away, such fear glowing in his eyes Dean felt the rock in his throat burst, allowing tears to pass and sting the corners of his eyes. “No, Cas, look at me. Look at me. It’s okay. It’s okay, you’re seeing things. Please, come back to me.” Dean held Cas’s head in his hands feeling the weight of it as the angel shifted from his semi-conscious state.

Cas panted, his chest contracting on him as his eyes opened just enough to finally see things clearly. Dean. Dean. Dean. The real Dean. Cas couldn’t speak, the pain was too much for him to formulate a coherent statement, but Dean nodded slowly, realizing Cas had started to come back to him. 

But the sigils lit up again and Castiel screamed in pain again, another feather burning away into little embers in the darkness. For once in that moment of panic, things were spoken. The cage Dean had built around himself burst open as the words shot out of his mouth filling the darkness with the slightest bit of warmth. 

“Come back to me Cas. Please, I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe. I love you and won’t let anything happen, promise.” Dean didn’t even realize what he had said. Not at least, until the angel see,ed to grasp reality just enough that those spoken words held the key to pulling Cas out of the darkness. 

Dragging his body and the wings that fluttered with discomfort out of the hellish room, Dean finally realized what he head said. But he decided he didn’t care anymore.

...

Cas refused to be engulfed by darkness. All the lights in the bunker were on at all hours, and Dean could only leave him alone for a few minutes. Cas was the strongest being Dean knew, and seeing him like, tore him apart. But it would just take time.

In the meantime, Dean had sealed the room, destroyed the sigils, and swore never to talk about it again. Cas had been in so much pain he had collapsed outside the room and slept for days. And angels don’t sleep. There were a lot of things Cas remembered about the room, the hallucinations that still plagued his dreams, and the carvings leaving faint scars on his pale skin. But of course Cas didn’t remember Dean’s words. Maybe he did somewhere, deep in his dreams and subconscious where the darkness melted away into light and he could feel at ease for once. But not here, not in reality. Things here were just left unspoken.

But just because it was unspoken, didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

**Author's Note:**

> Until next time,
> 
> -Daisy


End file.
